


World of Man

by charlotteschaos



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlotteschaos/pseuds/charlotteschaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will receives a letter from Bran that draws him back to Wales and into an attempt from the Dark to challenge the past to change the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dear Will,

I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. I know it's been far too many months since I've last written, but you know me,  _boyo_ , not much of interest happens on the farm. But since something queer did happen, I thought I'd write it up and send it off to you as an excuse. I still wish Oxford had worked out, but there's little point in belaboring that. My father needs me and I am here. 

In any case, today I was out mending the fence, as some foxes had craftily managed to make yet another hole, when some punter looking like a reject from some Renaissance reenactment toddles up and demands I surrender my kingdom to him as he is my elder brother.

Naturally, I told him that he was welcome to help out fortifying his castle and stepped back to let him have a go on the fence. He asked why my serfs don't tend to the fence and I told him it was their day off. 

That didn't seem to deter him, so as I had a fence to mend and he wasn't getting on his way, I asked which side he spawned from. He said my father's side and had I not been so convinced the fellow was mental, I would've swung at him right then and there. Owen Davies is not that sort of man, a fact which I shared with him. Then, get this; he claimed that I was King Arthur's son moved ahead in time. 

Thought he was having me on and expected telly cameras about, but none came around. Silly git even fancied himself Mordred. Doesn't that just beat all? 

I left him when I finished the fence. He was frothing on about how my life and my destiny belonged rightfully to him. He claimed he should have my power. I'm not sure from power, but he was powerfully amusing and I told him so. 

That was hours ago, but I still see him lurking about the farm. Might need to call someone out if it keeps up, but I feel sorry for him. 

That's my news, anyway. Finally something to report other than the excitement of animal husbandry and the fresh forms we've been given to fill out about scrapie, yeah? That's pretty exciting for me, anyway. Hope Oxford's treating you well.

Sincerely,   
Bran

**

The dense overhang of burdened clouds highlighted the verdant green of the pasture with dreary mountains misted in shades of azure and russet in the distance. Before Will, the slate color of the rain-slicked stony road cut into the landscape as rude an interruption as his hired Land Rover and the grunting motor and chipper pop music on the radio. 

It felt weird to take the turn onto the once-verboten property that had been Caradog Pritchard's land. It now belonged to Bran Davies out of some latter-day redemptive gesture on Pritchard's part, as likely as hope for the Light's indulgence on his bad behavior. Not that Bran understood that, exactly. What he did seem to know was what the town gossips chirped when they thought Bran wasn't in earshot. His mum arrived pregnant, stayed three days in which she was attacked by Pritchard and then she left with a note to Owen Davies.

Will inhaled at the memory of Bran's revelatory letter and his mad dash to get to Wales as soon as he'd received it. It was bad enough that Bran had to find out once; although that time he had a context for it. The second time was a much more human reaction, and though Will could still sense that chaotic energy from him, so long as Bran was in ignorance of his power, he could not use it. 

The tires squealed and crunched over the mud and gravel-soaked land providing a bumpy ride to the gate that Will had to get out to open and then close again after he'd driven through. If there was but one thing that was ground into him from that fateful summer on the farm, it was that the gates must always be seen to. Now that agriculture was shrinking and giving way to tourism, there was little room for error. Even when Bran was properly enrolled at Oxford with him, he still had his hand in the farm, filling out the endless stream of paperwork that his father's farmer-mind had no taste for.

As he parked in front of the small stone house, Will remembered Bran's comment that once kids from Wales got into college, they never returned. He had certainly proved the exception. It was hard for Will to imagine Bran, so pale and seemingly frail, outside day in and day out. Even his eyes were photo-sensitive. Bran's diffident comments about his beekeeper gear gave a funny visual, but Will was concerned that such measures in the summer heat would prove unbearable. 

Grabbing his rucksack full of clothing and books once he'd disengaged the vehicle, he slipped out of the white Land Rover to head to the door when movement out of the corner of his eye attracted his attention. A rangy pale man with stark black hair and beard peered at him, eyes golden like Bran's but with the furious madness that Will had always associated with Caradog Pritchard's farm. The strange man, whom Will deduced must be Mordred, ducked from the shadows to get a good look at Will, and likely to let him know that he was _observed_.

Though Will was tempted to use his powers on him right then, in truth he wasn't certain what power the Light even had anymore, and especially over a descendant of Arthur. He'd known when they were eleven that Bran held power that Will could only dream of, but the chaos of Bran's magic had always been well-intentioned. Mordred's past was murky, and his intent was something far less Bran's crafty arrogance and something far more callous and cold. 

"Will, you made it!" Bran's voice sounded chipper and worry-free, reminding Will that he really had no clue what sort of threat the Dark could pose over his life. 

Will turned to flash him a bright smile and then looked back to find empty the space in which Mordred had been lurking. "Yeah, of course I did."

Bran squinted in the direction Will was looking and pulled his glasses down to try and observe the shape of the shadows better. "Strange fellow. Not sure what to make of him, really. Seems harmless enough and even a bit friendly at times, but then he gets to lurking. Probably part of his disease."

His pale hand fluttered around his shockingly white head in a circular gesture to express how crazy Bran thought he was. Will finally relaxed enough to really consider Bran. He'd expected him to be sunburned, but the beekeeper costume must have kept him safe enough from the sun's rays as he was milk white as ever, like a blanched shell from the beach, white and eerily seeming to glow amidst the dreariness of Wales. 

He was dressed neatly as he often was at Oxford, in conservatively dark trousers and a sweater in a dark grey that to this day Will thought Bran must wear for its sharp contrast to his haunting complexion. His hair was a bit longer on top so that it fell to his chin, but was shaved underneath in a style that even on campus tended to get looks. Bran would protest that people were going to look anyway, so he might as well go the full route, but Will thought the haughty Welshman side of Bran reveled in the attention. 

Here Bran was willowy but still somehow intimidating, Will felt soft and pudgy by comparison. His brown hair still brushed his shoulders, and his face was round, making him appear deceptively chubby, although he wasn't particularly large. Next to Bran's sharp, angular features, his head looked like a pumpkin, and his grey eyes were dreary next to Bran's gold. 

Silver and gold, Bran charitably said when he was of a mood to lecture Will about how he could pull fit birds if he bothered. Not that Bran dated that often himself, but Will was loath to point that out lest it disrupt the happy balance of their dorm room. 

"Going to just stand there, Will Stanton?" Bran asked as he held his arms open, using his full name for effect. Will rolled his eyes and crossed into the embrace, slinging the sack back over his shoulder to get it out of the way, enjoying the warm greeting. 

He detached after a moment and looked back once more. "So he's been here since you sent that letter?"

"Right down to business, Uncomplicated Will, eh? Yeah, he's been 'round and about. Come inside and have some tea and get settled in, and you can tell me what's so alarming about the odd schizophrenic in Wales that brings you from Oxford in a hired Land Rover."

Will gave a weak smile and nodded, realizing that this would seem extravagant to practical Bran, although in truth it had been all he could do not to exploit his magic to get him here faster. Surely the Dark knew that he would come. He had little else to do of Light business since the final rising-- or what he'd assumed would be the final rising. But he decided that it wouldn't do to give them any sort of hint on what his plans were, especially since he wasn't sure he had any. In fact, his message to Merriman had either not carried through, or Merriman was detained or just plain gone. 

"Yeah, I think some tea would help that conversation," said Will, trying to keep the discussion light. He really hoped he wouldn't have to bring Bran back into this, especially when he'd opted not to know these things. With his father laid out in the hospital with a heart condition, it was even crueler. The Dark chose its time for attack well.

Bran looked out towards the hills and shook his head. "Something else rolling in. Breath of the  _Brenin Llwyd_. Remember those old games we used to play when you first came?"

Will could only feel forlorn at that. Of course Bran would have to think it was all just a childhood game of pretend. "Yeah. The Grey King," said Will, his voice tight.

Laughing, Bran slapped Will on the back and pulled him into the house. "Quite the imagination young boys have, I guess. Really, you always made up the most exciting games, Will."

"Yeah, exciting." Will looked once more out the door before the heavy wood closed with a thud behind him. 

**

After Will did his best to relate the well wishes of the Oxford Fencing Club, who missed Bran terribly, he settled in with his chipped mug of tea served with the wry remark that he was amongst bachelors now. Will didn't mind. Though Bran had always seemed somewhat conscientious of keeping to Will's aunt's house when he'd visit in the summer, Will speculated that Bran's home life would be just like this-- cozy, modest and genuine. But he knew Bran's pride kept him from letting him see just how modest. Now that they'd lived together, he supposed Bran had loosened up on being so self-conscious about it, which pleased him. He felt they were a bit closer now, which was saying a lot since Will, though he cared for many people, had never felt properly close to anyone but Bran. Even that had been cut traumatically short, at least for Will.

From what Will heard from his Aunt, Bran still never quite fit in with his peers, but Will knew that had to be by looks alone. Of course they wouldn't sense the magic and power he had, or perhaps they did. Maybe instead of awe, they felt fear. That was a human enough reaction; Will reflected on his own uncertainties when he'd first met Bran, and he hadn't even properly known who he was yet.

The secret stood on the tip of his tongue, begging to be set free, to let Bran know what he was in for, but he kept thinking about that night, about the sacrifice he made to be with Owen Davies, and also to stay in this time. Sometimes Bran would stare off into space, lost in some thought or reverie, and Will would watch him and wonder if it really had all been for Owen. Of course he knew that much of it would have to do with being bound to this time, but in moments of sheer indulgence, Will fancied that Bran stayed at least in part for him. 

Maybe Will could have visited him in another time, but Will was pretty certain that he couldn't. Things happened as they were meant to, and tinkering with the past could be dangerous, but Will was of the opinion that all things happened as they were destined to happen with only a few shining moments of true choice. 

Even those choices were, to an extent, foretold and accounted for, so perhaps had Bran made another choice, it would have been different. Or maybe he didn't trust that the Light would see his friendship as important enough to bend time for. The Light could be cold that way, unfeeling in the sense of stark light to dark-- black and white in a world where Bran was most certainly grey. He made the choice he made as the boy that he was. Who he became was still him, only with a piece missing. Will thought perhaps that missing piece was why Bran had those dark, quiet moods of confusion. He'd wished he could take it all away without betraying him, and perhaps now the Dark was providing him that opportunity.

The fact that it was the Dark made Will suspicious of it being the correct path, so he kept the conversation practical, about delusional people being dangerous. He could tell, though, that Bran saw something in this Mordred-- something familiar.

"It's his eyes, Will. It's... he claims to be my brother, and while his age makes me seriously question it-- because my mum should be about his age-- I can't dismiss that he could possibly be my real father and just...  _confused_ ," said Bran. 

For the first time, Will saw the longing to actually belong somewhere, to have a relatable family, and he ached for him and for that. Even Bran didn't know just now how much he truly loved Owen Davies and what he'd given up for him. Or maybe some part of him did and now regretted it.

"I really don't think he's your father, Bran," said Will quietly, staring at his hands as the fire crackled and popped in the simple living area. 

The fireplace was made of dark grey stone, stacked together with a light mortar to hold it in place. A small shelf jutted out where there were pictures of Bran and Owen and various sheep with ribbons and awards and trophies from Bran's school days, accolades for how brilliant he was at anything he put his head to. At the end was a lonely fencing trophy, and Will couldn't help but picture a younger version of Bran holding Eirias so proudly. 

"No, Owen Davies is the only man to properly have that title, but even if this man is addled, he could be a blood relation to me. I can't call someone to get him. I just... can't. If I can just bring him around enough, then we could... maybe he'd..." Bran stared off into space in another of his moods and Will watched him, wishing that he could know just what he was thinking when he flinched or frowned or his brow creased with unfathomable worry. 

Will nodded and yawned, even though he wasn't tired. He had a lot of thinking to do and decisions to make. He hoped that perhaps someone would contact him to give him some sort of advice. Surely someone else from the Light knew that this was happening, but they were all so silent. 

He felt alone, and it frightened him.

**

Will dreamt himself adrift on a rollicking sea. He was on the boat with Arthur and Bran. Merriman was at the stern but did not turn towards him. Instead, he kept his eyes on the course with no time to look back. Bran held Eirias out and the sword flamed and crackled with magic, but Bran's expression was frightened.

"You can't let me go with them. Don't let me go, Will," he begged.

Will reached out and took his hand, feeling it grow firmer and larger in his own as the boat rose up and slammed hard back down to the water. "I won't, Bran. I swear."

Bran nodded and laced their fingers together. Holding his sword away form him, he leaned in and kissed him. It was just a mere brush of lips and warmth of fanning breath on his cheek, but it was enough to spark Will out of his dream, waking up to find himself in Bran's room. It was silent but for the soft, regulated breathing of Bran who slept on the floor, offering his guest the best while he insisted that a few blankets on the floor was all he needed.

Peering over the edge of the bed, Bran appeared rumpled from sleep but otherwise placid and undisturbed. Will exhaled and flopped back onto the bed, ignoring the protesting squeal of the springs. "I won't let you go."


	2. Chapter 2

The morning light shot through the strange lace curtains, left over from Pritchard's wife. It wasn't the sort of thing a farmer would think to install or remove. They served their function. Will was in the room alone and pulled back the quilted covers to slide his stocking feet to the floor to pad around in the hopes that Bran was about. But of course he wasn't, because the sun was up and he was out overseeing the hands and calling out orders to the dogs. 

On the simple oak table in the center of the tiled, cramped dining nook was a note accompanying a hunk of bread and cheese and a pot of tea with a cozy on, likely knitted by his aunt. The note next to the plate of bread read, "Welcome to the world, sleepyhead." It was left unsigned. 

Will grinned and broke the bread and poured the tepid tea, finding it was warm enough that daylight must not have broken too long before this. He stood at the kitchen sink, peering out of the windows to see the bright shining hair flashing white in the morning light, but Bran was sitting on the stone wall next to Mordred. His shoulders were slumped forward while Mordred's arm was around him, and his body leaned in as Bran's appeared to lean away slightly, but only slightly. It was as if his head kept him there but his torso curved away. 

Leaving the bread half eaten and the tea to cool further, Will dashed back to his room to pull on day clothes, skipping the shower. He needed to find out what this conversation was about and how to stop it. He wasn't two steps out the back door of the small cottage when he heard a drawling voice that had now been relegated to nightmares. 

The chestnut hair was unmistakable, even though his face showed a few new lines that a decade could bring-- and a long decade it must have been. For a moment, Will almost felt sorry for the Black Rider, knowing what he probably had to endure for his failure, but all men are what they're born to and what their choosing is, and he had followed his path. 

"You arrived quickly, Old One. Seems the last of you has little to do but watch an ordinary, but unfortunate farm boy," said the Black Rider

"He is no ordinary farm boy, and we both know it," said Will.

The Black Rider's horse snorted and stamped its feet impatiently at Will's pronouncement.

"I see that living in the world of man has not diminished your insolence," said the Black Rider as he looked past him to Mordred and Bran. 

Bran had evidently heard Will's voice and was attempting to make his way over to him, but Mordred had him in his grasp, his arms wrapped around him in a way that appeared more like a possessive lover than a brother. Will felt something cold and angry flare up in his chest at the sight. 

"Oh yes, Old One, Mordred is quite willing and able to use any means necessary to get what he wants from young Bran Davies. He will not only take Bran's place and thus take his power, but he will have his fun," the Black Rider said, the sneer in his voice evident in spite of the fact that Will couldn't take his eyes off of the strange coupling.

"That's his brother," Will spat back. He couldn't believe that the Dark would go so far, but then, it was the Dark. Usurping Bran's power was ominous enough, but having his fun made the hair on the back of Will's neck stand on end.

The Black Rider laughed. "Mordred was born of the union of brother and sister, Old One. He has no more morality about family relations than Arthur did. If a seduction is what it takes to convince Bran to release his position to his older brother, then that is what he shall do."

Will looked to his feet for a moment, knowing what he'd read of Arthur and the different interpretations of his life. He had taken them for lies or embellishments, but if Mordred was here, then what could it mean? It could mean anything. There was nothing that said the Dark had to tell the truth, or that Mordred wasn't the child of Morgause and King Lot of Orkney.

"Arthur could have ten bastard sons and none of the others would be the Pendragon, as they were not born in wedlock as Bran was."

"Ah, but does Bran know he was born in wedlock?" asked the Black Rider. "Mordred can argue that he was the first."

Frozen to the spot, Will watched resentfully as Mordred whispered whatever it was he wished to say into Bran's ear and debated what that meant. "It doesn't change who Bran is."

"But to be in his power, he must know who he is, and invoke his right to the title, otherwise he is but a mere mortal. This was how the Light left him; this was his choice. The Dark argues that the Pendragon is therefore lost to time, and is living in a time not his own and in ignorance. We will take Mordred before the new council of High Magic to protest," he said, leering down at Will, who had finally torn his eyes away to glare up at him.

"Then go before your council and leave Bran alone. He does not need to be dragged into this. He chose a life without it." Will paused then, a thought finally occurring to him, breaking through the layers of deceit. "But you can't. You can't, or you would have. Mordred needs something from Bran, doesn't he?"

The Black Rider sat up, his eyes widened for a moment in his shock before he shook his head. "Mordred merely wishes to corrupt his little brother. To have some fun with him before the trial occurs."

Will knew he'd hit on something there, given the reaction. The Black Rider wasn't the best of liars. The phrase "corrupt his little brother" sent his mind into a flurry of fear and rage. "You lot will stay away from Bran. He is of no use to you now."

The Rider laughed. "He could be of immense use to us, especially when he finds out how the Light tricked him, left him to decide his fate on the spot at eleven years old and left him wide open to be taken advantage of."

After shooting him a cold look, Will turned to see that Bran had managed to disentangle from Mordred and appeared rankled by whatever suggestions had been made to him. "You don't know Bran very well, if that's what you think. I'll just tell him the truth now, and that will end it all."

"The counsel will send him back to his age if you tell him who he is, Old One." The warmth of the Black Rider's breath swirled in Will's ear like a seductive lie, finding its mark in Will's heart. "You'll never see him again."

Will lowered his face, staring at the mud and pavement beneath his feet, realizing that the Black Rider had sussed him out, and his aim was true. When he looked back up again, Bran was practically on him, looking out of sorts enough until he stopped to see the look on Will's face. 

"All right, Will?"

Shaking his head, Will tried to think of something to say. Evidently Bran hadn't seen the Black Rider, which was just as well. "Just... cold out here, is all."

"I'll put a kettle on; I think these blokes can get on a bit without me. I usually start the paperwork around now anyway. Mordred's been watching and says he can give a help." Bran slipped a casual arm around Will, a gesture that Will had always enjoyed but not made much of until now. He glared over his shoulder at Mordred, who simply sneered back at him before heading inside.

"You and that man looked awfully close out there, Bran," said Will after Bran had settled the water into the teapot to brew. 

Bran appeared disturbed for a moment and then shrugged. "Yeah, he did. I didn't know what to say to him. I mean... I realize loads of blokes are like that, but none come up and claim to be your brother. Unless that's the new thing. There aren't brother shagging parties I'm missing in Oxford, are there?" 

For a moment, Will wasn't sure if Bran was simply trying to make light of the whole thing or if there wasn't some part of him fascinated with the idea. His amused expression could've gone either way. "Yeah, well, loads of blokes like other blokes well enough. Some only in school."

"Fagging."

"Yeah," said Will as he poured himself a cup of tea, taking it straight that morning. "But the brother thing is definitely out there, even for Oxford."

"Yeah. Poor bloke is out of his skull. I've heard some shepherds even get lonely and shag sheep." Will's eyes widened up at Bran, who just smiled and went on, "Not that I've seen this, or been tempted, mind. Just heard about it. Guess that's what happens when you can't pull. Keep that one on tap, boyo," said Bran, tapping his finger to Will's forehead.

Will rolled his eyes that Bran had brought it back to teasing about Will's lack of interest in girls. But really, he didn't know how that would work as an Old One, if he was even allowed. The Lady never spoke of lovers and Merriman always appeared alone but for his closeness to Arthur. 

At some point, Will had begun to see himself like the dewin to the Pendragon, Will the Merlin to Bran's Arthur, but without Bran knowing who he was, he would never get the relevance beyond thinking that sometimes Will could do very interesting things. Sometimes Will wanted to tell Bran so much that it ached, particularly when Bran seemed to sense something special, and that he could look at Will and know that he was feeling it too. Bran just thought they were really close. He had no idea. 

Bran was the first boy his age that he'd met that had any clue what his dual life was like, and beyond the silken skin or even the toned muscles from Fencing, Will knew that his life was destined to be spent in tandem with Bran's. From the moment they met, it had to be. 

Up until now, Will had been able to write it off as duty. He'd been able to write off the lingering looks and the appreciation for the way Branâ€™s pale hair shone against the light and his body filled in and highlighted clothes to appreciation for his unusual friend. He'd reasoned that if he appreciated it enough and in the right ways, then Bran wouldn't feel self-conscious about it. He would see that he was as beautiful and interesting as Will found him.

Except that he wasn't the only one, and he never really had been. There were so many others who appreciated Bran at Oxford that it was a relief to not have to compete against all of the new people he was meeting, all of the new people who found Bran's look attractive, although they weren't prepared for his defensive and often biting wit. 

But now he was home again and an even bigger threat was on the horizon, and what Will couldn't get out of his head wasn't just that Mordred was his brother or that the Dark thought they could bring in the question of High Magic to be given the chance to rise again, but that Bran hadn't appeared particularly alarmed that a man was fondling him. Granted, he didn't truly believe that the man was sane, or his brother, but he wasn't brawling like the men at Uni often did when another man touched him in such a solicitous way.

"Sorry, Will. Did you find a bird in Oxford? That was... inconsiderate of me," said Bran, who had helped himself to tea.

For a moment, Will was lost, but then realized he must've been just sitting there dumbly contemplating. "That man was touching you," Will said, trying not to pour any of the malice he felt about that into his tone in order to keep it light. 

"Er, yeah. Pretty friendly way to great your brother, yeah? Out of his skull, clearly. Can't blame him, though. Just look at me," said Bran, tilting his head up arrogantly before laughing at himself.

Will hated when he did that. There was no need to be self-effacing when it was true, but he recognized that he was enough in the minority that Bran would feel that way. He just wished he wouldn't. He gave him a small smile, "There's no accounting for other people's taste, Bran."

"Rotters, the lot of them, eh, Will? Anyway, should get back out there. Was a ewe caught my eye, might see if I can get her up on a proper cliff top," said Bran, waggling his brows.

"Let me help you," said Will as he stood.

Bran stopped and then laughed.

"Not with that!" Will laughed too, rolling his eyes, glad that things were back to being easy between them. No matter what was going on, they always had this. "I did spend a few summers helping out."

"And I spent a few autumns fixing Clwyd Farm after your helping," Bran teased over his shoulder as he beckoned Will to follow. "Come on, then. I can always use the help."

**

Will dreamed of the boat again, only this time Bran was at the stern and he could talk to Merriman. Or at least he hoped he was talking to Merriman. The waves rocked the boat and Will held onto the rail as sea spray misted his face. His feet were cold and the thunder all but blocked out what Merriman was saying to him. 

"You will have to tell him, Will. It is the only way," Merriman shouted, his white hair whipped by the savaging storm. 

"But he asked us not to!" Will protested.

Just Merriman's look was enough to tell him that he was thinking in the ways of man, in the ways of Will Stanton and not as an Old One. "There is too much at stake to rest it all on the choice an eleven-year-old boy made. You do not know it isn't a different one he would make now. He does not have all of the facts."

"Why now?" asked Will, almost afraid to hear the answer. 

"Owen Davies has passed on."

Will stared at Merriman for a long time, realizing now that there was nothing really holding Bran to this life but his wish that he would stay with him. Owen had been the reason Bran had remained, and now that was gone and there was the Dark to defeat. "But the Black Rider said they'd take him back to his time, and Bran said to me last night he didn't want to go back."

Merriman started to say something harsh and brisk, his head shaking, but Will could not hear the words. They were obviously very important, but probably an admonition to Will for being so attached. It wasn't the duty of an Old One to grow attached. His loyalty was to the Light. 

The dream ended in a crash of thunder and shouts and cries from Bran from the other room. There was a loud crash and Will leapt from the bed into the room where the little table where the phone sat had been pushed over. 

"I'm sorry, Bran," Will whispered as he pulled him tightly into his arms.

Bran never asked how Will knew. Bran had long ago stopped asking such questions of Will and just accepted that he Knew Things. He'd never appeared so grateful for not having to say it aloud right now. He tucked his face against Will's throat and sobbed. To Will, the sound echoed the pain he remembered in Bran's voice when he'd lost Cafall. This time, Will would offer no words from the Light, nothing to try and mitigate the pain. He would just be here and hold him, rubbing his back as he guided him to sit on the couch. 

Now seemed the most devastating time to tell Bran this, but he wondered if it wasn't also the best time. The pain was so sharp and there were so many arrangements to make and things to deal with, perhaps it would be better if he knew that this wasn't really his father he was mourning. 

Will opened his mouth to speak, but Bran seemed to have something to say as well. He pulled back, golden eyes red-rimmed and his face shiny with tears. "I'm so glad you're here. I don't know.... I don't know what I'd do if you weren't." 

Bran gazed at him intently for a moment, his eyes searching his face and finally resting on his lips. His chilly, pale fingers wrapped around Will's cheeks and his head tilted as he leaned in. Will had seen this before, he'd done this before, but never with Bran and never when it meant something so important, so monumental. Part of him wanted to flee from it, to make it stop so he could tell him the news, but before he could force himself to speak, their lips met, tracing and kneading one another as Bran's fingers smoothed into his hair. 

Those long, cool fingers felt wonderful on the back of his neck. Flushed with shock, he parted his lips, daring a quick dart of his tongue out to test how much of a kiss Bran wanted. He wanted to give Bran anything, everything. He wanted to be the man that Bran came to and the man Bran kissed when he needed to be kissed and mailed when he was scared and called when he needed help. He nestled in, kissing Bran deeply as he wrapped his arms around him, feeling the softness of the flannel shirt beneath his fingers as he fisted the fabric. 

It was Bran who broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Will's forehead. "I have to go down there, I have to fill out paperwork and I have to..."

"Do you want me to go with you?"

"Yes, I do," Bran whispered, grabbing the back of Will's neck and sneaking another kiss. "But I need you to watch the farm more. I'll go alone. It will be all right. I will be all right. I made... I knew this was a possibility. I just... no more Oxford. No more...." 

Will nodded and swallowed hard as Bran pulled away, watching as he wiped the tears from his peculiar eyes. He pushed back his hair, put on a cap, and straightened his clothes. "Should only be a couple of hours. And I'll be back."

He started for the door and then stopped to look over his shoulder at Will, a little frightened this time. "I'm sorry. I just... always wanted..." Bran's voice trailed off and his expression deadened.

As much as Will wanted to say something comforting, but the right words fell quiet in his throat. "I... I didn't mind... I'll watch over things."

Bran smiled a little shyly and nodded; a little weight had lifted, and Will was glad that much had. "Brilliant. I'll be back."

"I'll be waiting."


	3. Chapter 3

A couple of hours felt worlds longer than it was, and Will wondered if he shouldn't just pitch in, but as he stared out the back window, it looked as if John Rowlands had things well in hand. He'd followed Owen Davies over from Clwyd farm. After the engineered death of Blodwen, he'd never remarried, and was also subject to Bran's occasional teasing. "The Great Lot of Bachelors" he'd called his father and John, grouping Will along with them.   
  
Will smiled slightly at the thought of what he might say now, the grin fading with the memory that Owen had passed on and would not be part of such conversations any longer. He had just started to let his mind drift to the subsequent kiss that he'd shared with Bran, wondering if it meant anything more than seeking comfort, when he saw a flash of dark hair and the wiry figure of Mordred approaching John Rowlands.   
  
The look on John's face told Will everything he wanted to know about what he thought of the strange man. He looked wary and even annoyed, but then John's rough-hewn face, with his craggy lines that had only deepened with grief and the passage of time, always appeared terse. Maybe Will was simply fancying that, but then, Blodwen aside, John had always seemed to be a keen judge of character.   
  
John's gestures were strident and his eyes narrowed and it occurred to Will that he wasn't sure if John knew that Owen had passed on. He stood, prepared to run out and let him know and give him relief from having to deal with Mordred, when he heard a soft rustling behind him.  
  
"He knows, Old One."  
  
Will saw the flash of white hair and the hooked nose in the scant reflection of the window before he wheeled around to find Merriman standing in the middle of the modest living area. "Merriman!"  
  
He smiled down at him, and Will couldn't quite remember the last time he'd had a visit in person. But as the Lady had started to appear faded and tired, so was Merriman losing his strength to stay in this world. He had promised to Will that he would see him again, but he said he would appear to Will alone, so he assumed this meant their time would be short. "You tried to speak to me in my dream."  
  
"Yes. I am afraid that my time is fading and with it, my ability to reach you in times of strife and question." Merriman didn't appear fully corporeal, but almost silvery in the way the sleepers once had, and again Will was fraught with the sense of being truly alone. "Do not let your thoughts drift to regret. I will pass outside of time, but that is the way of things. We do not have time for such mortal concerns."  
  
"Sorry," said Will, shaking his head and knowing that he was right. "It's a consequence of the situation."  
  
Merriman nodded and patted Will's shoulder, an almost surprising gesture in some ways, but Will found comfort in it. "You have not told Bran."  
  
"No. I... didn't the Dark protest his inclusion in the proceedings at the time?" Will turned to gesture back to John Rowlands, who had made the sound judgment that Bran belonged to this time.  
  
"Yes. He did. And now that they've established that he belongs to this time, they are attempting to question his legitimacy as Arthur's rightful heir."  
  
"But..." started Will, a million protests all reaching his mouth at once, making it hard to speak them.  
  
"He clearly was. He gave it up."  
  
"Why now?" he asked again. "A decade has passed since the time of the fall of the Dark. The world has been passed on to men; they have been banished."  
  
Merriman looked at Will for a long while, finally exhaling slowly with the burden of the ages. "You might do better to ask why you are left here alone when the rest of the Light has moved out of time, but for me while my light is slowly fading."  
  
Will felt a twinge of panic at the notion that he'd never even questioned why he was left. "I assumed it was because I was eleven and too young to pass out of time."  
  
"Bran was offered the opportunity to pass along with the rest of us. Age was not a consideration on that offer. Life can be short, and fate can be cruel. You have a further destiny, as did Bran, should he choose it." Merriman's dark blue robes rustled as he shifted. It appeared he was having a difficult time finding a comfortable position in which to stand.   
  
Remembering the look of awe on Merriman's face and the delight on Arthur's, though he was losing the only chance for him to get to know his son, Will realized that he had very much underestimated the situation. "You said that he was giving up the right to be the Pendragon, that he would never see Arthur again, that he would live and die as a mortal."  
  
"In an age in which Light and Dark as forces have passed on to mortal virtue, it would take a mortal to lead them."   
  
Will stared blankly at Merriman; his jaw dropped as he looked around the simple shepherd's home. It was hardly Camelot. "How is he going to lead them? What right would he have if he's not the Pendragon?"  
  
"The Pendragon is a title, Will. The  _Pen Draig_ , or chief dragon. It is the name given to a leader in war, in battle. There are no epic battles other than the ones that men wage with one another. This is not a time which needs a Pendragon, which was why in order to maintain that title, he would have had to pass with the time that claimed it. By refusing it, he became a mortal, but that does not change who he really is."  
  
Pushing his hair back from his face to tuck it behind his ear, Will looked down, shaking his head. "But... but... maybe before, given his Political Science studies at Oxford, but now... now he's here. He's a farmer."  
  
Merriman gestured around the room dismissively. "Did you really think that Caradog Pritchard had a sudden change of heart? He was, and always had been, an agent of the Dark. This is a distraction. You ask why it took a decade for this to happen, and I tell you that there is much more at work, because there is much more at stake. Removing Light and Dark from the world that created it is not so simple a business as it may have seemed, Will. The world needs a leader to unite them. Not a warrior, but a leader."  
  
"Bran," said Will, his voice husky with fear for what lay ahead for him. It was tinged with longing for a kiss that seemed even more inappropriate now than it had at the time.   
  
"As I was there to guide Arthur, so shall you be there to guide Bran, Will. That is why you are here; that is why you were left. Your fates are inextricably intertwined. He will need you as you will need him."  
  
The sound of a motor outside reminded Will of the time, and though his heart was sinking and breaking for what kind of future he might realistically have with a man he'd have to share with an intolerant world, he kept a keen eye on Merriman.   
  
"I will be there for him. But what about..." He gestured behind him where Mordred was breaking away from John, likely to try to speak with Bran. Will was just as desperate to get to him, perhaps more so now that he knew Mordred was headed that way, but he wasn't sure when he'd see Merriman again.  
  
"I will return again for the trial, but you must tell him, Will. He must know his place in the order of things." With that, Merriman faded, blending slowly into the stone fireplace he'd been standing before.   
  
After a beat, Will dashed outside to see Bran shaking his head at Mordred only to be caught up in an inappropriately affectionate hug.   
  
 _I have no right to that with him_ , Will reminded himself, but thought savagely to Mordred,  _But you have even less of a right_.   
  
Will approached the pair, trying to keep his expression stoic. "Bran."  
  
Bran's face was lit up with red, pinched and glossy with tears and pressed against Mordred's chest. "He's gone, Will. He's gone."  
  
Reaching for him to pull him from Mordred, Will took Bran inside, running his hand up and down Bran's back tenderly as he shut and locked the door. He held him for a long while, just rocking him, resisting the urge to kiss the top of his head. Bran had a destiny now, a destiny that Will would be part of, just not in the capacity he wanted to be.  
  
Once Bran had calmed down, he tilted his head up to kiss Will again. It was so sweet and soft that Will almost didn't realize it was happening. A wet brush of lips followed with a feather-light curious tongue, asking permission, begging, exploring, searching and finally meeting with Will's. It felt as if time had suspended, making the seconds tick like hours, where he felt united, part of something, part of someone.   
  
There was always something about Bran-- perhaps it was his completely otherness-- but it made Will feel comforted, open, as if he could really share something meaningful and have it understood. Bran was not completely of this earth, but he was of this time now. He was Will's age, and he saw things, felt things; they'd been places and accomplished missions together.   
  
Will kissed him back as if he could express all of this to him in the kiss-- as if this single commingling of tongues and lips could take away Bran's isolation and tell him that it was for a purpose, that there was a meaning to it. He kissed as if it could break the enchantment that kept his real memories at bay. Will kissed as if he had a right to this, as if their destinies didn't dictate their behavior which made this forbidden.   
  
"Bran. We can't."  
  
Bran stood stock still, his tongue still left over his bottom teeth, his lips plush and red from kissing and his eyes focused on Will's mouth, questioning why it had stopped. His expression registered each word slowly, resolving into astonishment, shock and finally agony.   
  
It killed Will to end this before it even began, especially as it was all he really wanted for himself; out of time and magic and destiny, he'd only ever wanted one boy, one man, and now he had to tell him that he couldn't. That they couldn't.   
  
"Bran, I have to tell you something."  
  
Never had Bran look so betrayed-- even the loss of Cafall paled in comparison to this look of slow-burning rage. "Save it, Will."  
  
Bran was pulling away and Will tried desperately to keep a hold of him, wishing he could take it back, but he knew he couldn't. Still, Bran looked hopefully up at him as Will grabbed him, surrendering to it momentarily, until he read the finality in Will's expression. Then he pushed away.  
  
"Look, it's really important."  
  
Heading to the bedroom, Bran shouted behind him, "Go back to Oxford, Will. I won't be coming with you, so you might as well just move on."  
  
Will started after him but the door slammed with such force that he knew there was no talking to Bran now. Standing on the other side of the door in the small hallway, Will slumped down the wall and held his head in his hands, wishing he could make him understand. But in an instant, he'd had everything he'd wanted and lost it all.   
  
Though it was the afternoon, the world began to grow dark.   
  
**  
  
Bran did not leave his room for supper and though Will knew that there were no locks on the doors, as far as he was concerned, it was sealed shut. Given the choice between sleeping in Owen's bed or the lumpy plaid fiber couch, Will chose the couch. Though Owen would not be returning to claim his room, Will couldn't be so presumptuous over how Bran would feel about someone he'd asked to leave sleeping in it.   
  
Were the situation less dire, Will would have found himself an inn to give Bran some space to mourn and consider. The information he had directly pertained to what must have seemed a cruel rejection, although after a night's rest, Will wondered if it would have even been a good idea for them to explore these feelings so soon after such a loss.   
  
His mind kept returning to the question of whether Old Ones were even allowed such luxuries as relationships of that sort. Will thought about how affectionately Arthur had called Merriman "my lion" that night as he stood on the boat and bid them farewell. He remembered Gwion and the King of the Lost Land. Such worry. Such love. Such affection. Of course he had not thought to ask how deep those relationships went, nor would he now, as it was a terribly personal thing to question someone about.   
  
Sighing, Will rolled over and squinted out into the mid-morning shade. There was no breakfast laid out for him this time, and he could easily envision the contemptuous look his presence must've elicited from Bran. It felt like there was a hole that burned through his body. As if part of himself was now missing. He and Bran had always had each other, even if each was necessarily separate because of so terrible a secret as he carried. Now all he could feel were the questions that he had left unanswered, and worried that he might not get a chance to answer them at all.  
  
Outside, Bran stood in a broad-brimmed hat next to Mordred, staring out at the flock imperiously, dark shades over his eyes, his lips a line on a face that Will saw jovial more often than not. He knew it wasn't always so, or at least that's what he was told. Will wished that being an Old One was something that he could return. That if he could give it up just to make that smile return to Bran's face, he'd count it as well worth it.   
  
" _Duw_ , it troubles me, too." John Rowlands' voice broke through Will's gloom and he started.   
  
Immediately Will felt embarrassed for how much he'd let his guard down to be ambushed like that. "Mordred?"   
  
John nodded and pushed a mug of tea into Will's hand. Will smoothed his hair back, realizing he hadn't even brushed it since waking up on the couch.   
  
"Bran gave him some of Owen's clothes this morning, so at least he's not quite the sideshow he's been." John worked his jaw slowly, as if rehearsing how to say what he wanted to. "For someone who claims to be a relation of Bran's... he seems rather..."  
  
Outside, Mordred wrapped his arm around Bran and pulled him into an intimate hug that Bran didn't fight, nor did he fall into. Instead, he continued to just stare out at the flock.   
  
"Affectionate?" asked Will, his breath catching at the movement.   
  
"That would be the word." John's fingers were white around the mug, making it apparent that he was as alarmed as Will was.   
  
The spectacle of two shepherds embracing was a little odd. Bran stood a good few inches taller than Mordred and his shoulders were set broader, cutting the figure of a slender king. Mordred was shorter, narrower, but he exuded a terrible malice that would likely overwhelm any physical disparities between the two.   
  
"The funeral is in a couple of days. I expect that's why you're about in spite of the row?" asked John.  
  
Tearing his eyes from the pair, Will looked at John in surprise.   
  
"He was sketchy on the details, but made it sound pretty final." John took a sip from his mug, keeping his eyes on Will's.  
  
"I..." Will had no idea what to say because he had no idea what was said. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have..."  
  
"He'll get over it, Will. Whatever it is, he'll get over. You two share a bond that is stronger than this strife. You've loving bonds that are stronger than any magic," said John with a faraway look in his eye.   
  
"Loving bonds," Will repeated, his mind moving from his predicament with Bran to the speech Merriman had made so long ago.   
  
"Like that, do you? I don't know where it came from. Something... I have these dreams sometimes," John said, gesturing with a light turn of his wrist.   
  
"Yes, I like that." Will wondered if this wasn't the true answer to his questioning after all. It was the loving bond that was keeping Bran here, but maybe that was what really kept him here as well. No, he was here by destiny, by plan, by fate. He was not here by will of love.   
  
"You two will sort it out," said John before turning back to the window. What he saw must've surprised him, as his eyes widened.  
  
Will looked out as well to see Mordred cupping Bran's face, saying something that appeared personal. Their faces were close and Bran's back was to Will, making it difficult to tell how what he was saying was being received.   
  
Mordred looked over Bran's shoulder, straight through the window, and leered at Will before leaning in, his head tilted just so. It was enough to spur Will into action with John right behind him growling words of alarm and disgust as they ran out of the backdoor to stop this.   
  
Lazily, Bran pushed Mordred away and then glared over his shoulder at Will. "Why are you still here?"  
  
The hostility in his voice stung. As did the fact that Bran was chastising Will and not Mordred for advancing on him that way.   
  
"I'm here for you," said Will.   
  
"I don't want you any more than you want me," Bran spat back.   
  
Mordred crossed his arms, obviously frustrated by his brother's reticence, but he appeared smug that he wasn't being shouted at for his action.   
  
"Bran, this is a difficult time. Don't push Will away." John looked at him in appeal. Silently, Will thanked him.   
  
"I wasn't the one pushing away." At those words, Will could see the hurt plain on his face and he longed to relent, to take it all back, and to be someone else.   
  
Instead, he dropped his gaze and Will said, "I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't be sorry. Just go." Bran's voice was filled with a lethal calm. He sounded weary, and surely he must be so. Everything had been so trying since he'd left Oxford, maybe kissing your brother seemed reasonable in a mad world.   
  
"Bran," John started his hands up in surrender already. "He knew Owen, too. You should at least let him mourn his loss."  
  
Bran pulled his hat off and smoothed his hair back. He stared into the top of the hat for a moment as if the answer was written inside. "I suppose you're right."  
  
Will exhaled in relief. It bought him time, at least. John nodded to Will and then to Bran.   
  
"Good. Why don't you go in and get some rest, Bran?" asked John. "You look weary."  
  
It took a few moments for Bran to make up his mind on this. He stared for along while on the horizon, then he looked at Mordred and finally to Will. "All right."  
  
Bran trudged inside and Will watched his slow, stiff movements, as if he were carrying a boulder behind him, the weight too much to bear. He vowed he would make this right. "Bran, I need to talk to you..."  
  
In response, Bran slammed the door behind him and Will closed his eyes.   
  
"Time,  _boyo_ ," said John as he patted Will's shoulder. "He just needs time."  
  
Will nodded weakly and then turned to address Mordred in order to vent his spleen on someone who deserved it, but he had already disappeared. It wasn't hard to see that Mordred was avoiding him, and wisely so. Were it to come down to it, Mordred would be hopelessly outclassed. The silence vexed Will. As angry as he was for the man coming ahead in time to seduce Bran and to try and take his birthright from him, he wondered if the Dark had been completely honest with him about what it might entail or what the result for his life might be.   
  
As it wasn't in the best interest of the Dark to say so, he guessed that they'd promised him a position of power in a new world that they'd create. Mordred was likely foolish enough to buy it. Maybe they even said he could keep Bran around.  
  
He knew from history that there was no love lost between Mordred and Arthur. Perhaps this was just another way to twist the knife in his father's heart. No matter what his reasoning was, Will swore to himself that Mordred would not prevail-- not over Bran, or over the Light.   
  
After shooting John a wry grin, he headed inside to make himself available on the off chance Bran might be willing to talk. 


	4. Chapter 4

The couch wasn't any more comfortable the next night, which left Will to a light sleep and tormented dreams. There was so much on his mind and he was so frustrated with what this was doing to his friendship with Bran. Even if he couldn't have him for all that he wanted, he knew that he needed him as his friend. Now, in Bran's time of need, Will was failing.  
  
He'd just rolled over to hide his face against the back of the couch when he heard a loud thud and the sound of angry voices. Will was to his feet in a flash and dashing in the direction of the noise, which he thought was from Bran's bedroom.   
  
It had gone quiet again but for a low squeak of springs that sounded like someone getting back into bed. The door was shut and Will hadn't begged entrance. He wasn't sure if he should now. He stood with his hand outstretched to the fake brass knob of the door, debating what to do when he heard Bran's voice again.  
  
"Look, I said to quit that. You'll be back outside if you-- Hey! Stop!"  
  
Will flung open the door to find Mordred in Bran's bed, lying on his side, pressed against Bran. The covers moved over Mordred's hand, which rested between Bran's legs. On seeing Will in the room, Mordred leered and redoubled his efforts, moving his hand faster.   
  
In response, Bran flung Mordred out of the bed with a loud thud, the same one Will heard moments ago. Bran's eyes never left Will's. They were defiant, but scared, as if he feared that he'd crossed some invisible line that would turn their fight into a loss forever.   
  
"Get out, boy," shouted Mordred, his yellow eyes narrowed with implied threat.   
  
"This isn't your room to ask me out of," said Will evenly.  
  
"This is Bran's room and he's asked you to leave the  _farm_  time enough!" Mordred shoved Will back out of the room, bouncing him against the wall.  
  
"Don't!" Bran shouted, leaping from the bed to tackle Mordred to the floor. "Don't you even  _touch him_."  
  
In full fury, Will could see Herne and Arthur in Bran. He embodied the swift decisiveness and the ferocious loyalty. Catching his breath, Will rubbed the back of his head. "It's all right, Bran. I'm all right."  
  
Already Bran had Mordred pinned to the floor, his knees stuck painfully into his thighs and his hands pushing Mordred's wrists down. Bran was so livid that he was trembling with it. Never had Will felt so honored, so valued by another person; in an odd way, he was deeply touched. Still, he was worried about what might happen to Bran should this go further.   
  
"But you hate him! He hurt you," Mordred protested.   
  
"I never said I hated him. I just said he hurt me. Don't... don't touch him," said Bran. He peeled off of Mordred carefully. "I think you should go, Mordred."  
  
"I'm your family. What you need now is family, not a friend who would hurt you in your time of tribulation," said Mordred.   
  
"Will is my family as much as Owen was," said Bran quietly, keeping his face carefully turned away from Will.   
  
Will was astonished to hear that. Before all of this happened, he would have thought so, but given all that had happened, he'd had doubts. He allowed himself a small smile before stepping back into the room, slipping past the two to claim his territory back.   
  
"I am your blood," Mordred insisted, but Bran was gentling him out the door, patting his shoulder as he held the doorframe, his hand an irresistible force as he moved him to the hallway.  
  
"I understand you believe that," said Bran patiently, as if he believed Mordred to be addled. "This makes what you were doing even more inappropriate. You'll understand that I don't want you sleeping in my room."  
  
Without waiting for an answer, Bran shut the door and leaned against it as if he thought Mordred was going to fight him. He looked warily at Will and gave him a nod of greeting, and then dropped his gaze to the hardwood floor. "I guess I should let you explain," said Bran.  
  
Will smiled for the first time in days and sat on the bed. He patted the spot next to him for him to sit, which Bran took with little hesitation. "Thank you," said Will as he reached out to push the fluff of Bran's hair back from his face affectionately. "Let me figure out where to start."  
  
After sharing a smile, Will looked down to try and sort his thoughts, trying to put together what to say and how to say it. He should've rehearsed. He knew it was coming, but he didn't know where to start now. When he looked up, Bran was staring intently at him. Before he knew it, he was engaged in another kiss. This one wasn't a question, it was a command. Bran's will was that they were going to kiss, and there was no stopping it.   
  
Will closed his eyes to receive it, enjoying the play of Bran's callused fingers on his jaw, the way they directed him and held him in place, as if Bran expected a fight. Deep down, Will knew he should be fighting, that he should put up a protest.   
  
The information was so very germane to why he couldn't allow this to happen, and yet, all he could manage was a low moan when Bran drew his bottom lip into his mouth, flicking his tongue and suckling gently as his other arm curled around Will's body. He was completely drawn into the warmth and the neediness. He brought his hands up to slide over Bran's broad shoulders, sliding his fingertips down his bare chest.   
  
Maybe he could allow himself this much. He could indulge in the fantasy that this could be, letting it happen for now and hope that it was just Bran's loneliness that had driven him to this. After he explained why it couldn't happen again, perhaps they could reflect on this happily, knowing at least there was this time.   
  
Or, perhaps he'd just lose everything that mattered to him.   
  
Bran was pushing him gently against the bed and Will tried to balk, tried to force himself to stop this before they went too far. But then, he wanted it, wanted this, wanted to have Bran balancing his weight between Will's legs and on one arm as he stared down at him intently. All he could do was stare back, pulse racing and breath loud and heady as he tried to rationalize how he could have this.   
  
He knew he should speak now, to start telling the story, but as if Bran could read his thoughts, he kissed him again, thrusting his hips forward so that his prick ground against Will's thigh. Holding Bran tightly, he worked his hips against the rocking motion. The friction between their bodies was intense, not just because it felt good, but because this was  _Bran_. His Bran.   
  
This need was so human, but very real, and Will couldn't deny it. He knew that this could ruin their friendship forever, but as he ran his hands over Bran's smooth back, he knew he wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop. Their movements made it difficult to breathe, as the efforts were taxing and they abandoned kissing in favor of loud gasps and needy whimpers.   
  
Will was possessed of the need to touch Bran, to slide his hands down the back of his flannel pyjama pants to squeeze his arse. He pulled him forward, directing his thrusts against the crux of his thigh harder, feeling hipbones digging into him with bruising strength and the uncomfortable pain of Bran's cock pushing so hard against him.  
  
"Touch me," Bran moaned into Will's ear. His breath was humid and seemed to swirl in his ear, lingering with its demand and soft promise.   
  
As if it were a spell that Will could not refuse, he brought his hand around under the elastic of the pyjama pants and dragged his fingertips over Bran's length. He'd never touched another man's cock and he was now mesmerized by the feeling of it. His hand was mashed between them, making it feel heavy, yet the skin was still pliant, warm and incredibly soft.   
  
Will was glad he didn't have to make such a request of Bran. He wasn't sure he'd have the nerve. But nearly immediately after he'd started to touch Bran, Bran's hand was on him, fingers circling him and pulling, and after that it didn't take long before he was spilling over Bran's fingers. Bran followed with a husky exclamation of pleasure, leaving Will's hand wet and his body tingling and weightless.   
  
Bran's kisses were wetter now and significantly less coordinated. They were punctuated with heaving breaths and soft sighs as his body slowly melted against Will's until he bore Bran's full weight. When Bran pulled his hand from him and wiped his leavings off on the side of the mattress, Will took a deep breath to prepare to speak.  
  
There were likely better times for this, but at the rate he was going, they were rather few and far between. "I need to tell you this, and I need you to listen, Bran."  
  
Rolling off of Will, Bran lay on his side and grinned at him lazily. "All right, I suppose you've earned the right to say what you wanted to. Can't imagine what you think you're hiding from me after  _that_ , though."  
  
It was then that Will realized how blindsided Bran was really going to be by this. Obviously, he thought there was something else on Will's mind, probably to do with sexuality. At this point, he rather wished that it was as seemingly uncomplicated as that. There was nothing for it, though. Bran had to know. Mustering up his courage, as well as his intent to break the enchantment that Bran had on him to block the memories of the circumstances in which they'd really become friends, Will drew in a long breath. "What you remember about us... what you think was just us playing games... it was all real."  
  
Bran looked at Will and snickered. "Right, Will. That's..."  
  
The dawning realization was clear on Bran's features as the enchantment broke. Will swallowed hard, watching the revelations washing over him in slow waves. Were Will less familiar with Bran, he might've overlooked the flinches and quiet twitches that informed his countenance. As it was, all Will could do was lovingly slide his fingers over Bran's arm to remind him that he was still there.   
  
"Oh," said Bran quietly. He looked lost, and then his brows furrowed and he finally looked at Will with his head tilted. "But I... gave it all up."  
  
Bran was working out the relevance on his own and said, "Mordred. He's... he is really my brother."  
  
Will nodded.  
  
After giving the door a disgusted look, Bran turned his attention to Will. "And you're not exactly human."  
  
"I'm human, Bran. I'm just...."  
  
Bran nodded and rubbed his forehead. "Which I was, but am not anymore."  
  
"Right. That's the gist of it, but that's not where it ends."  
  
"Obviously not, if Mordred's here." Bran exhaled and rolled onto his back, relinquishing all physical contact with Will.   
  
Bereft of contact, Will tried not to take it personally. Obviously, Bran just needed to work things out. "There's that, but also, you have a unique destiny. You're Arthur's son, even if you're not part of High Magic anymore. Your destiny is to lead."  
  
Bran huffed in a derisive way. "I lead sheep, Will. I have a farm. I am no Arthur."  
  
"You can't lead sheep, Bran. You've a bigger destiny than that. You have a destiny like your father's. You have to lead people, just like you were studying to do." Will rolled onto his side, resting his chin on his hand as he stared at Bran, who was still looking up at the ceiling.  
  
"I haven't the money to go to school even if I didn't have this farm to look after. I don't suppose destiny could float me a loan?"  
  
Will laughed and rolled his eyes. If Bran was making jokes, he was taking it well. "It will work out somehow. That's the way destiny is."  
  
"Yeah." Bran didn't sound convinced, but he sat up and pulled the covers over them both. Will took it as an invitation to stay there. Will was relieved and pleased. Maybe he'd worried for nothing. "We'll see," said Bran.  
  
"There will likely be a trial, though. You cannot trust Mordred. He came to claim your birthright and to take whatever power you might still have." Will left out the part where Mordred was trying to seduce him. It was pretty obvious that was part of the plan anyway.   
  
Bran reached over to turn out the lamp. "I won't be talking to him again. It was one thing when I thought he was addled. It's quite another to know the sick pervert was really trying to seduce his own brother."  
  
"I'm sorry," said Will reflexively. He knew it wasn't his fault, but he heard a note of sad weariness in Bran's voice. He scooted closer to him and slipped an arm over Bran's stomach, ignoring the wetness for now. They could clean up in the morning.  
  
"It's not your fault." Bran rolled onto his side to face Will and stretched an arm around his waist.   
  
As much as Will felt like he should probably tell Bran to think of his future political career, right now he needed to hold Bran as much as he needed to be held. "I know. I just... wish they'd've left you alone, is all."  
  
Bran shrugged and closed his eyes; his skin looked blue in the cold light of the gibbous moon that shimmered faintly through the windows. "I'm kind of glad they didn't. We wouldn't be here like this if they hadn't."  
  
Will found himself speechless at that, so he just leaned in to kiss Bran's lips softly and whispered, "Me too."   
  
Stuff it that Bran's future political career would send all of this into a very big closet. Maybe tomorrow Bran would wake up and realize how these two aspects of his life weren't congruent. If this was all they ever shared, it would have to be enough. 


	5. Chapter 5

The funeral was uneventful. Because the Davies' could afford no better, they had a very general but religious sort of graveside service which Bran spent trying to look stoic and somber. Will kept an eye out for Mordred or any of the Dark figures encroaching on the ceremony. He was relieved that not even the Dark had the nerve to disrupt mourning. It was at least one mercy they visited upon his beleaguered friend.  
  
After Bran threw the lump of dirt onto the casket, a light mist started to fall from the heavens, catching like crystal webbing in his hair and disguising the wetness of his eyes and the dribble of stray tears that spilled from their corners.  
  
Will embraced him, holding him warmly although he tried to keep it chaste, resenting that now he would worry about such things. Not only had they crossed the line with one another, but now there was this new fate thrust upon them. No one seemed to expect any different between the men, or if they did, they kept it to themselves.   
  
Riding back to Bran's farm, Will held Bran's hand. Only John was left in the car, and Will knew he understood.   
  
Once they arrived at the house, Will had the sinking feeling of something amiss. He knew that Bran wanted nothing more than to get home, shuck off his clothes and be held, but Mordred was standing at the door in black robes looking defiant.   
  
His golden eyes appeared to glow with eerie menace from within the depths of the hooded cloak. "Bran Davies, I challenge your claim of descending from Arthur. You were ruled a man of this age, which means that you cannot be a man of that age."  
  
For the briefest breath, Bran looked weary. His eyes rolled and he inhaled, and Will was afraid that he'd chuck it in. The Dark had chosen this time wisely. Bran was so near the warmth of his bed, still well acquainted with his loss and drained of energy. It would be so easy for him to just let it go, and Will couldn't say that he'd blame him one bit for doing so.   
  
"I accept your challenge, Mordred." Bran  _sounded_  tired, but his shoulders were back and his posture straight and proud.   
  
It was clear that Mordred didn't expect Bran to rally and he looked shiftily back over his shoulder to the closed door. "Inside."  
  
Bran took Will's hand and nodded to John who was still sitting in his Land Rover, peering curiously at the goings on. Without waiting to see him off, Bran stalked into his house, brushing past Mordred, pulling Will with him.   
  
The living room was no longer his house, but a darkened tunnel with looming shadows that flickered from three taper candles set on the floor in the center of the room. One was red, one white and between them was a smaller grey candle. It was burnt down more than the other candles and Will couldn't help but stare at it, puzzling over what this meant.   
  
As he watched the flame flicker and waver, the smoke twirled out of the tip, spinning and swirling into the dark room, slowly forming a figure wearing a robe. The face under the cowl was remarkably pale, as were the spare silvery strands that breezed into the light with each breath the tall figure exhaled. On either side of the grey figure, a red and white figure resolved from the smoke to flank him. The other figures were shorter, a mirror image of the way the candles were sized before and were feminine, the slight outlines of their breasts giving them away.   
  
This was not the same council that they had appeared when they were children, and Bran gave Will a questioning look before turning back to them. Mordred stepped forward with the Black Rider at his side. Will thought he saw the central figure sneer at the two before his hood concealed it. It occurred to him that the man in grey was very much Bran's height, only more solidly formed. He clutched Bran's hand tighter, wondering....  
  
"It's a new council," whispered Bran.   
  
Will nodded and then peered at Bran curiously, trying to glean meaning from his expression. "Yes. The age of High Magic is over."  
  
Bran nodded slowly as he looked curiously at Will, tilting his head. Though they'd talked of what they'd accomplished together before, what Bran had believed to be a child's game, it was clear that it wasn't until this moment that he'd really  _felt_  it. "War in red, peace in white... and belief in grey."  
  
"Very good," said the man in the grey robe, his voice curling and familiar, but without the distinctive lilt of Welsh that Bran had. In fact, he lacked any accent of all, but his voice was as rich with promise as Bran's had ever been; only now it was beset with maturity.   
  
Mordred, seeming to sense the conspiracy, stepped forward. "He is of this time, and had no right to interfere with the business of the Dark and Light a decade ago. I was born to Arthur before him, and I grew up in my proper time."  
  
The three looked to Bran for a rebuttal. Will thought he saw the woman in red lick her crimson lips in lusty anticipation. Such was the nature of war.   
  
"I am his in blood, his in proper birth and not of myth. I was his legitimate heir and Arthur himself recognized me as his. The loving bonds of my mother brought me to this time; loving bonds of Owen Davies held me in trust. I belong to all those whom I love and love me. I belong not only to this age, but all ages, just as Arthur lives on in the hearts and minds of those who read his legend."  
  
Will had never been prouder of him and it seemed that the man in grey was pleased.   
  
Chuffed with his victory, Bran added, "Mordred is not so well remembered." Mordred shrank at the accusation  
  
The Black Rider, however, appeared triumphant and stepped forward and gave a polite bow. "But Bran Davies is not remembered by history  _at all_."  
  
As the council turned back to Bran, their robes rustled and Will saw a flicker of apprehension on his face. Then he straightened again and said, "But  _I will be_."  
  
The man in grey clapped and chuckled, nodding in agreement. Peace flashed a smile from her cowl, while War grimaced.   
  
"How is it that a sheep farmer will come to greatness? Were you still at Oxford, perhaps the council would believe such a thing," said War, malevolence tainting her pitchy voice.   
  
This time, Bran was mystified and looked woefully at Will for an answer.   
  
Will shrugged and furrowed his brows.  
  
The answer came from behind them. John Rowland's voice echoed in the strange hall. "He will go back to Oxford, because I will buy him out of this farm and pay his way."  
  
When Will turned, the thought he saw a flash of white hair.  _Merriman_ , he thought, a small smile on his face.   
  
"Where does a farmhand get money enough to buy a farm to pay for Oxford?" asked the man in grey, his tone sounding very much as if he already knew the answer.  
  
Crossing his arms, John glared at the Black Rider and in that moment, Will wondered if he somehow remembered his place in proceedings just like this. Would the Lady have lied and not have erased it from his memory? Or had she left just enough?  
  
"My  _dear wife_  died tragically a decade ago. A lorry driver took her life when she was walking along the road. I was left with a sizable settlement and have lived a modest life of working. The boy will get back to Oxford," said John, with no small amount of satisfaction.   
  
The Black Rider glared in incredulous fury, but whirled back around to the council. "It means nothing. Simply an education is not enough to..."  
  
"But there is a chance," said the grey robed man who represented belief. Belief was a two-edged sword; it could lead to times of peace by uniting people in something to rally behind, or it could split them into segments, resulting in war. All were human constructs and well-suited to the task of judgment in the age of man. "The verdict is made. Bran Davies belongs to both ages and Mordred belongs to history and myth."  
  
The two vanished in a tumbling fade, the Black Rider screaming in outrage while Mordred quietly accepted his fate, glaring at Bran till all that they could see of him were two pinpricks of golden fury that eventually faded into the gloom.   
  
"Congratulations, Bran Davies... and Will." Belief looked wistfully at Will and then to Bran. "You've much to look forward to.  _Together_ , if you choose it."  
  
Before Will had a chance to ask what that meant, the figures faded as the room brightened back up into the patina of midmorning shade. Bran took a deep breath and turned to John and smiled. "Did you mean it? You... you want the farm?"  
  
John nodded to him and reached his hand out to shake on it. "Only if you keep up with the paperwork like you did for your da. Never had a talent for that, I'm afraid."  
  
He winked and Will and Bran laughed.   
  
\--  
  
The campus was a luxuriant green already, and it seemed almost unseasonably warm for spring, but Will wasn't sweating. He'd been sweaty enough moments ago, and his muscles still burned pleasantly from their earlier romp in the dorm room.   
  
"I still don't know about this, Bran. You're to be a great leader and... people aren't accepting of..."   
  
Bran had already set down the hamper and was spreading the clothing on the spiky green grass, making it ready for them to sit on. They'd held hands a few times on campus, but for the most part, Will had tried to keep their relationship low-key.   
  
"Yes, I've thought about that," he said as he sat on the blanket, shifting a bit to find a comfortable position before he began pulling the lemonade and sandwiches from the hamper. "That's a bunch of shite."  
  
This arrogance was in no way new, but of late it seemed to have a sharper edge to it.   
  
Will sat on his knees and then rested his hip on the soft ground. He started setting up a plate for himself as he tried to sort out where he was going with this. "All right. I give. What's shite?"  
  
"It's ridiculous that people should give a damn who I'm shagging. If I'm good for this age of man, if what I do is essential, then it's really none of their business who makes me happy." Bran shrugged and took a bite of his ham and cheese.  
  
"That's not how politics work. That's not how  _people_  work, and you know it," said Will, although his stomach flipped happily at Bran's words. It was sweet, but he knew he would have to do what was right and step aside eventually.   
  
"That's how politics  _should_  work and how  _people_  should work."  
  
"You know I'm inclined to agree with you, but it's just now how it is," said Will. He opened the thermos of lemonade and poured it into the plastic cup.   
  
"If things were as they were supposed to be, the age of man wouldn't need a destined leader, now would they?"   
  
Bran's grin reminded him of the man in grey. Belief. It really was a two-edged sword. He thought about the way War licked her lips looking at Bran, but then the way Peace smiled on him as well.   
  
 _Loving bonds are what keep him here. Love is the most powerful magic there is_.   
  
Suddenly, Will understood.  
  
He set the thermos down and rocked up to his knees and kissed Bran deeply in the middle of Oxford on a bright shiny day in spring.  
  
That was how the world began anew.


End file.
